THE PHILANTHROPISTS. [From Blackwood's Magazine.]

New Zealand Spectator and Cook's Strait Guardian, Volume II, Issue 52, 4 October 1845, Page 4

THE PHILANTHROPISTS. [From Blackwood's Magazine.]

Come all ye philanthropist!, tender of iouls, Who feel for the pangt of the North and South polei, Who gro»n for the peril*, by land and by water, Of the wearers of black skins beneath the Equator, Though the sons of your country may pine at your feet, Though the daughttrs may make their last bed in the itreet ; But, Humbug for ever ! and humbug for all ! So, come to our field-day in Exeter Hall. There you'll see on the platform the Sainti of, the Saints, All double refined from all corporal taints, With faces impros'd with all manner of woei, Their breath all expended in " Ahs" and in " Ohs. Yet a look, now and then, not far short of a leer, Showi that man, after all, ii but man even there, And that, now and then, sinners may come at the call Which summons the saintly to Exeter Hall. Below sit the Ruths and the Eacheli, so prim, From their nose to their toes in the true angel tnm. In teaching and preaching, the " Friends" lead the van, When the colour is black, and the black is a man. Beside them the " Brethren" sit, fish-faced and squab, Each perched, like a toad by the side of Queen Mab; Each thinking himself a St. Peter or Paul, And the world nothing more than »n Exeter Hall. Beyond them are muster'd the new " Convertites," Whose eyes are but learning to turn up their whites ; Who, finding things hopeless in Cheltenham and Bath, Have turned to the sweet supernatural path, Set up their bazaar in the •' Methodist line," Follow Orator Prosy, or Orator Whine ; And on earth having nothing to do, great or small, Look out for a partner, in Exeter Hall. Then rises the Chairman, of course he's a Whig, Who cares not for gold (or for grammar) a fig; He rises, to tell all the world what he* doing, What mischiefs the King of Ashantee is brewing, What negroes are murdered by cannon and rockets, So bidt them pay down ; while he buttons both pockets. His duty is done, when he leads off the ball; So he drops on hiscushion in Exeter Hall. Then up, stands an orator — groaning of course, With a puff, like a bellows, for old Wilberforce. But where are the true Simon Pures; the sweet pair! The echo of Exeter Hall answers "Where? ' Thus attorneys with plums will grow sick of the bar; Thus soldiers with purses turn haters of war,; Thuo sailors, in harbour, look black at a squall, And thus saints will fight shy even of Exeter Hall. Then rises his neighbour, his eye fixed on heaven, With a speech.whichl've heard twentytimesfrom oldStepten, Delicious old Ste , how I miss thy dear cant, That compound unrivall'd of gossip and rant; The tales from thy lips that so softly would trickle, That the souls of the saints to their midriff would tickle, Till the " Mastership" came, thy true prebendal stall — Where, where is thy statue in Exeter Hall ? Next rises the wonder of earth, Puss in Boots, Profound as Joe Hume, in pence, puffs, and cheroots, The grand acquisition, the Tieasury bustle, The hump on thy petticoat, little Jack Russell, The man for all weathers— the brave of the Bench ! (Thus Firemen their flames with ditch-water will quench ;) With his meaning wrapt up, like an ass in a shawl, The great Opium Dealer ot Exeter Hall. If youM furnish your fancies with stories of niggen, Of floggings and fetters, musquitoes, and jiggers; Of Mumbo and Junlbo, by preaching struck dumb ; Of the wonders of tracts, and the woes of new rum; Ol Cannibal monarchs with five hundred wives, Which they bake in hot pies every day of their livesAll told in a style that would soften Fox Maule, You havo only to pop into Exeter Hall.